


Wolf Moon

by Pink_Siamese



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Siamese/pseuds/Pink_Siamese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The kiss stumbles around in the feathering snow, imprinting the shape of its intentions into the stairs."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I had a strange dream...and I wrote it down. While the unnamed woman in this story is written as an original character, it's easy to imagine her as the female half of your favorite heterosexual Hotchner pairing. Feel free to read these words either way.

Each snowflake lands like a hard note from the sky. Every note swirls and they're cold the way her fingernails are cold.

The kiss stumbles around in the feathering snow, imprinting the shape of its intentions into the stairs. The sky is black above streetlight-stained clouds and he thinks her fingers would be warmer if her blood wasn't so shy. The moon pushes its feverish silver glow through layers of falling snow and glitters across the ground. Her breath frosts his lips yet her mouth remains tropical and her hot tongue beckons. He doesn't hear himself groan but he knows that he must have by the way her breath trips up the inside of her throat. Her knuckles rub between the roots of his hair, pulling him down. He feels an urge to cup his hands around her cheekbones. He imagines brittle moonlight draped on her skin, shadows sneaking inside her clothes. He curls a hand around the back of her neck.

_Wolf moon_, she said as she opened the door, spilling warm light into the street. Brightest moon of the year. Each word a step in time and a sneaking effrontery to space. _Reid could tell you why_, he answered, wishing he could murmur it into her hair.

The kiss breaks apart.

_My place?_

_Yes._

She watches him drive. He steers like a dancer with the snow as his music as street light falls in whirling cones and stutters across his face, gleaming around his sharp profile. Each stoplight makes him lowers a slow firm foot onto the brake and crunch snow beneath the wheels. She feels herself in those treads. Though his car is the kind of cat that prowls the pavement she imagines holding his hand inside a big pickup truck, heat blasting, forearms reaching across a bench seat, broken rosary beads dangling from the rearview. In her mind she leans into the red haze to reconnect. The shadow of the beads pendulums from her cheek to his; in this fantasy she must resist him long enough to whisper things like _keep your eyes on the road_ and _you know it's snowing_ and _kissing while driving is a dangerous thing_. Laughter between them comes easy, steaming up the windshield. She deconstructs the walkway kiss and reassembles it to the soundtrack of new car scent. He doesn't look at her during the short ride to his house. The windows are dark. The front light isn't motion sensitive. He opens the passenger door and takes her hand and holds it up as she steps out and up onto the walk. This old-world gesture floats in her head, spins around her eyes, and stumbles in her toes. The moonlight casts their shapes into the snow-dusted grass.

He sits down on the top step and knocks her out of all the expectations she didn't know she had. Her arm stretches out between them, holding up the seconds. She peers through a tattered veil of snow and searches for the expression on his face. He pulls her in under his lip of darkness. She drops to her bare knees and touches the hunger in his breath moving in and out of his chest before his eyes close and their mouths grope together. They unpack the kiss, spreading its secret contents with their tongues. She holds on to his priest-like coat. He takes big handfuls of her hair and massages them against her scalp, melting the clinging snow, letting it run down the insides of his wrists. She climbs onto his lap, one leg at a time. His wet hands burrow beneath her skirt, sliding up the length of her indrawn breath. Her blood stretches out, releases fumes into her breath. Inside her mind, the world swoons away from the touch of the night. Each kiss that lands on her neck is like a door opening and all of them look the same. _Aaron_, she whispers, the syllables melting in her cunt.

He lifts his mouth to speak. _Yes_?

She runs trembling hands over his hair. _I'm cold_.

He almost fucks her on a countertop on the kitchen. He's got his zipper open and his shirt off and her skirt bunched up around her waist, her kickers in the sink, the tone in her voice breaks through his haze: it's a moan that needs a bed to be cast adrift on, the raft of a mattress and smooth sheets to help it spread out and forget itself. He licks her neck. The line of saliva evaporates into goosebumps. He lifts one of her breasts and presses it into her ribs and the sweet sound that curls out of her is roughened by breath. He pins her hands against her hips, closes his eyes and rubs her breasts with his face, biting the shapes of her nipples. Her breath locks and flutters. He pushes up the hem of her shirt and exhales on her belly, a graze of his lips stirring the hairs below her navel. She leans back. She lifts her thighs onto his shoulders. He wants the breathless song before he takes her to bed: _oh Aaron oh Aaron oh Aaron_.

She watches him get on his knees. The light from the hallway lays in slices on the black and white tile floor. She combs her fingers through his hair. His tongue is soft and ticklish, wet and full of restless heat. His diligence make her cunt ache. The kitchen smells like emptiness and seaweed. He buries two fingers. She grabs his hair.

_No more_, she sighs, the words cresting on a low groan. _No more. Stop_. The sensation wraps its barbed-wire arms around her womb and tilts it toward orgasm. Her toes curl, knuckles going paper-white. _Stop_. He doesn't. _Stop it_. He smells the ghost of her blood and tastes it in her slick flood. Her clit burns on his tongue like a scar. Each pulse is sharp. He is lost. She doesn't know where to find him. She doesn't want to come splayed out on a counter in a sterile kitchen with a red welt from the counter's edge ironed into her ass. She pushes on his forehead. _Aaron! Oh…Aaron, stop, I can't._ The boundaries of her vision start to shimmer. Her eyes squeeze shut. _I-I can't hold it in any more._

He hauls her by the wrist into the bedroom. The white hallway flashes by and all its darkened doorways look the same. He kicks the door open and flings her down onto the bed, and the walls are dark blue like the inside of a well and there is so much moonlight that it turns everything cold despite her steaming skin and the rivers of sweat leading from his hair. In the midst of a face-mashing kiss his teeth come down on her lower lip. The shock of it lets in a rush of fire. The taint of blood in his mouth tastes like a penny tongue-fished out of her cunt. She squirms and the lightness of her bones cry out into his palms, his clenched-up palms, stink of sweat wrestling with the faint scent of fabric softener. She moans, bubbling and torn, and rubs it into the hollow of his throat. The tension of her body, folded back and yearning to break, hums into his skin. His mouth waters as he thinks of sticky kisses and the harder he pins her the more she writhes like a slippery fish caught in some strange trap. He plugs her hole and feels it swallow him. Slam. Slam. The headboard hits the wall like a shattering kitchen chair. She bites the air. He covers her mouth and she bites the side of his hand.

She digs her heels in and jerks her hips until she gets that look, that ugly creased drawn inward face, the look that says My attention ends at the outlying regions of my skin, give me more dammit, do it harder, make me come. He pulls his hand out of her mouth and lands a good backhand across her face. His knuckles tingle. Her limbs jump. Her belly draws tight as a plank and she hangs in the breath-torn silence, poised against the moment. He looks at the trembling arrangement of her face, her brows held in delicate curves, her swollen lips gaping. He chokes up. He hits her again, grunting with the effort, a belt buzzing in his ears and pain sizzling in his wrist. Her fingers walk up his face, twirl in his hair.

_It's okay._ Her voice turns into something he's never heard before. _I like it._

He sees himself in the pieces of the kitchen chair. He sees himself picking them up and unloading on her with them. His teeth start to chatter. The picture in his mind is sharp and oversaturated, loaded to the brim with details: the smooth curve of the wood, shock traveling through his muscles, her bruises blooming like dark flowers, the wet impact of her breath as it hits the floor, the feeling of his own skin tight against his movement with the need for some kind of release. The memory of Foyet's knife carves each image a little deeper, slides sideways and loosens up the old wounds—how at one point through the soporific pain it seemed like George might lean over and kiss him, a tongue in his mouth and a knife in his gut. Slow patter of words loaded up like darts aimed at the secret places survivors share. That was George's style. He unstoppers the bottle with his teeth and all the dark memories fly out, gathering in the cold light, glistening in the wicked grin of a ghost blade, whispering in the click of a slithering belt. He pulls away from her, out of her, disentangles from her, trembling. He crawls to the edge of the bed and lets his feet fall. He folds his body over his arms. Then he starts to cry.

She longs to stretch herself over such great hacking sobs, to push them back down into his lungs with her hands. She wants to soak up his sweat with her disheveled hair and take his red cock in her hand and stroke him through it with her ear pressed to his back, listening to his misery struggle for supremacy with the runaway cadence of his heart. She wants to touch herself and taste the back of his neck. She wants to close up her skin like a robe and tie it off, get up and close the curtains, haul the night out of hiding. She thinks—It's Foyet, isn't it. She puts a hand on Aaron's back and sits curled beside him like a nervous cat. She thinks Maybe it's not Foyet and Maybe it's the rest…I know why it is called the wolf moon: christened in lupine madness after the hunger, the howling for something unknown, strange strong light mocking the gnawing in the gut—she closes her eyes and feels him but sees a big swanky apartment building, long hallways and doors lined up in neat rows, but each door is a blank and closed face. There are carpets like runways with the odor of loneliness. She thinks I would follow you into all of your nests, the places you live when you're not at home. In this place all the doors look the same. She feels lost. She gets cold and wraps up in the blankets. She breathes and waits. In her mind door after door opens on weak hinges and behind them is space waiting to be filled. She turns on a gentle light. She takes up sentry, listening to his emotional storm beat itself to death upon the stony silence.

Wolf moon, she thinks, poor hungry wolves sitting in the skeletal hills, howling at themselves. Fucking idiots.

Aaron takes her hand. His fingers are cold and wet. She imagines putting them in her cunt and making them warm. She leans her head against his shoulder and looks out the window.

She thinks: all I can do is wait.

Wolf moon.

I'm so hungry.


End file.
